


You've Always Counted

by DivergentLunarShadowhunter



Series: Late Night Writes [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: But that doesn't mean he doesn't love her, Gen, Not Sherlolly, sorry - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-26
Updated: 2017-01-26
Packaged: 2018-09-20 00:22:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,689
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9467159
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DivergentLunarShadowhunter/pseuds/DivergentLunarShadowhunter
Summary: ANOTHER version of the Sherlock/Molly reconciliation at the end of The Final Problem. Totally understand if you scroll right past, it's one of the #1 topics in the fandom rn apparently (for good reason though). But if you don't scroll by, thanks!In my version Sherlock's still suffering from a bit of withdrawal (I know we didn't see that in TFP but it must've happened), and so maybe he's a bit OOC. But he's more human in S4 I think, more emotional, so I'm really hoping I didn't overdo it. I probably did.Oh well. Enjoy the millionth version of a Molly/Sherlock reconciliation!





	

You’ve Always Counted

 

Sherlock went over the words hovering in front of his face. Repeated them to himself mentally. Got sidetracked wondering why they always seemed to be in that font. Shook his head and concentrated.

 

He was still trying to get over the withdrawal, and despite what he’d told John and Mrs. Hudson and Mycroft, he knew they knew he was lying. So now he was outside of a doorway, feeling trapped and terrified.

 

Trapped because the doorway was at the bottom of a stairway, and there was no running away.

Terrified because of who was on the other side of the door.

 

He glanced longingly up at the street, seeing John’s face staring back at him even though he’d come alone.  _ No _ , Mind Palace John said silently, shaking his head.  _ There’s no leaving _ .

 

He hadn’t actually spoken much to John after the Eurus incident. John had been at his own flat and Sherlock had been in his, similar to the days following Mary’s death. But it was different this time- this time John was finally talking to him, and Sherlock wasn’t allowed to leave the flat.

 

Well, except for this. It had taken much too long to get Mrs. Hudson to let him go; she hadn’t the slightest idea what had happened on Sherrinford, even though he was sure someone had told her. It was only when he suggested that Mycroft was watching him anyways that she took the gun off of him.

 

Yes, she’d pulled the gun on him. Again. He’d found himself in a similar situation to John’s with Mary, finding this alter-ego of a person. But he’d learned years ago that women were not to be underestimated,  _ especially  _ Mrs. Hudson. 

 

He’d texted John a few times, being more gracious in his responses than usual (meaning most of them were annoyingly long), because he knew John got annoyed at his usual brusque, one-word replies. He hadn’t told him he was going anywhere today, and he had a feeling John thought Sherlock didn’t know about the “babysitting of the drug addict” arrangement. He’d be at 221B in about an hour anyway, and they could talk then.

 

If he was still alive then.

 

Slowly, he let the rehearsed text fade away into the air (even in his mind palace he couldn’t resist a dramatic touch), and knocked gently on the door. He then hit his hand against his thigh, cursing it for shaking. It had been so bad that he hadn’t even shaved yet, although he’d finally washed his hair that morning. He ran a hand through it absentmindedly, not realizing he was messing up the damp curls until they were more tangled than usual.

 

While his hand was still in his hair, and he debated making a run for it, the door opened and she was there.

 

He opened his mouth to speak, eyes catching on the arm that was still in front of his face. He quickly disentangled his fingers from his head, wincing as his hand yanked a lock of unbrushed hair. He cleared his throat and dropped his hand by his side, trying again as his ears heated up.

 

“I, um...hi.” His eyes flicked down, not able to look at her. There was a moment of silence as she studied him. The words he’d etched into his mind were gone, useless now.

 

“You’re not supposed to be here.” The voice was nearly unfamiliar to Sherlock- tired, rough and slightly slurred. Risking a glance up, he immediately knew why. She’d been crying.

 

“Oh, Molly, I-”

 

“Don’t.” She rubbed her face with her hand, although that just caused more redness on her cheek and an almost unnoticeable smudge of makeup (that Sherlock noticed). She shook her head. “Bad day, that’s all. Rosie.”

 

“Right.” He’d almost forgotten where the baby had been the whole time. Suddenly it hit him; Molly was still working in the morgue, probably changing from normal working hours to early morning calls, maybe even a rare late-night emergency. She was living alone in a flat, caring for a baby that wasn’t hers. Even though John was paying her for the food, diapers, and just for the babysitting in general, Molly still had the misfortune of losing all or most hours of sleep at night. Not to mention the constant attention during the day, or the frantic attempts to drop the young girl at a friend’s house after being called in for a shift.

 

“I can take the baby, if you like.” He didn’t realize he’d spoken aloud; her face still showed little emotion. “To 221B, I mean. I’m clean now.” He shut his mouth, afraid that he wouldn’t be able to stop talking if he continued.

 

“John never called me.”

 

“Well, yes, I know. And he calls every day, doesn’t he? To check in on Rosie, I mean. He’s extremely protective, and yet he can’t keep her at home by himself. I mean, obviously, because-”

 

“Where were you both yesterday?” Molly’s voice did not waver as she spoke.

 

“I- we were-”

 

“Don’t lie to me, Sherlock. I may not matter at all to you, but I know when you’re lying to me.” Sherlock stared at her, opening his mouth to tell her she was wrong.

 

“Molly-” but she interrupted him again.

 

“No. Just...just don’t. Don’t say anything about that. Just tell me why John never called me yesterday, and why-” her voice cracked and she swallowed hard. “Why  _ that _ happened.”

 

“It was only yesterday, I’m sorry, I should have waited. I didn’t mean to hurt you and I wanted to get over here as fast as I could to explain…” His voice shook suddenly with rare, vulnerable emotion. “Oh Molly, you have no idea what she did to me.” She stared at him, shock and concern written into her features. He looked down at his shaking hands, realizing they weren’t the only part of his body shaking.

 

She stepped into the house, and for one terrifying second Sherlock thought she was going to close the door. He lunged forward and pushed his hand against the wood, and the door slammed back into the wall, causing him to stumble into the flat. Molly jumped.

 

“I’m sorry.” Sherlock blinked, reigning in his emotions and forcing himself to relax his body. “I do hope I haven’t dented your wall.”

 

“It’s, um.” She glanced at his hand, still pressed against the painted wood. “It’s alright. It’s already dented.” She gave him a small, tense smile. “I wasn’t closing the door, by the way. I’m not sure I could hope for you to just walk away.”

 

He hesitated. “Well, actually-” She snorted. “Stop talking now, you moron.” She gave him another half-hearted smile after seeing his face contort in surprise, to show him she meant no offense. His mouth quirked into a smile mirroring her own.

 

“I was  _ so _ mad at you, you know.” She looked away, pursing her lips. “I was really looking forward to slapping you again.” She held up her hand. “Even put a ring on this time.”

 

“You can still slap me if you like. I know I deserve it. But can I explain first?” Molly pretended not to notice his piercing eyes, now more like a beaten puppy than a sharp-eyed detective, directed at her face. She tried to ignore the fluttering of her pulse, clenching her fist by her side.

 

“Well, you might as well come in,” she said finally. “I just put Rosie down for a nap around fifteen minutes ago, but don’t think that means I’ll be quiet with you.”

 

“I wouldn’t think that for a minute, Molly Hooper.” Sherlock stepped forward, gently pushing the door closed behind him. He followed her into the kitchen, halting as she walked around the island and started preparing tea. She noticed his change in behavior and paused to glance over at him as she reached into a cupboard.

 

“What? What’s wrong, Sherlock? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.” He stayed silent, eyes roving over the counter, the sink, even Molly’s sweater, which was similar to the one she’d been wearing before. His mind played the scene out in front of him; Molly, bags under her eyes, making tea. Barely looking at the phone when it started to ring. He winced as he remembered what he’d said.

 

_ “But why isn’t she answering her phone?” _

_ “You never answer your phone.” _

_ “Yes, but it’s  _ **_me_ ** _ calling.” _

 

He hadn’t meant to be so rude about it, really. He’d just meant that Molly cared about him, had a not-so-secret and probably foolish crush on him. Besides her remarks about his drug abuse, he didn’t think he’d said or done anything else to piss her off. Or maybe the drug abuse was it.

 

“Sherlock?” He blinked, forcing the scene of Molly crying into her cell phone to disappear, and looked at the real Molly. “Hmm?”

 

“You just kind of...stared off for a minute. Are you sure you’re all right?” Her voice rose accusingly. “Are you sure you’re-”

 

“Yes, Molly, of course I’m clean!” he snapped frustratedly. “It was never really real anyways. It was a plan.” Molly bristled.

 

“A plan.” Her voice was suddenly deathly calm. “A  _ plan _ , Sherlock? How many more times are you going to try and get me to believe that bullshit?”

 

“No, Molly, it’s true. I know you don’t believe me, I know I’ve lied to you. But everything I did, everything I said...it all had a reason, Molly. You’re not a nobody to me. I know...I know it seems to you like I don’t care.” He paused, trying to form the right words in his brain. “I know you say you don’t matter, you don’t count. But Molly, you-” the words died in his throat.  _ You’ve  _ **_always_ ** _ counted. _

 

He was hoping that he might get some sort of reaction from her (he wasn’t lying, maybe being a touch over dramatic, but telling the truth nonetheless), and then he realized he hadn’t actually said the last sentence out loud. Molly just shook her head slightly, continuing to prepare the tea. Sherlock did notice her hands were shaking and tears were forming in her bloodshot eyes. She went to grab a lemon from the counter and Sherlock sucked in a breath, causing her to look up at him in exasperation.

 

“What is going on with you? You haven’t moved an inch since you got in here, now I can’t cut a lemon? Why are you acting like this?”

 

His mouth opened, moving soundlessly as he tried to get the words to come out.

 

“Molly, I-” He couldn’t do it. Couldn’t say what he wanted to say. Couldn’t tell her the truth. He looked up at her, and she saw with a start that there were tears shining in his eyes.

 

“She was going to kill you,” he whispered. “She...she made me do so many awful things to the people I love most. John, Mycroft... _ you _ .” Molly took a breath.

 

“Are you…? No, you’re not.” She turned away. “Don’t say things like that if you don’t mean them.”

 

“No, you don’t understand...Molly!” He reached his arm out, grabbed a handful of her sweater, tugged her towards him weakly. Begging her to turn around. “Molly-please…” his voice cracked, and suddenly he couldn’t help it. He sank to the floor beside her and put his head in his hands, a tear running down his gaunt face. 

 

“Sherlock!” Molly was beside him now, he realized. Grabbing his arm, making him look towards her. His head pounded, and suddenly the craving for drugs hit him, hard. He cried out in pain as it crashed around him, latching on to Molly’s arm and sweater and holding tight to her.

 

“No!” he shouted, voice ragged. “Molly…” his vision grew dark, and he struggled to keep his eyes open. “You...you always count...to me. Always will.”

 

And then he threw up on her tile floor and passed out, trembling.

  
  


Less than five minutes later, he woke up with a gasp, surrounded by Molly. His head was on her thigh, he was curled in the fetal position, and she was gently running her fingers through his dark curls. He turned towards her, spotting the small puddle of vomit inches from his face and drawing himself back up into a sitting position.

 

“I…” he shook his head. “I’m so sorry, Molly. I’ll clean it up and g-”

 

“Don’t worry, I’ll do it,” she said. “I’m just lucky you don’t eat much.” She smiled at him, causing the corners of his own mouth to turn up slightly. She must have realized how uncharacteristically insane Sherlock was being; how strangely emotional he was. But of course she knew- she  _ always  _ knew. 

 

“Do you want to tell me about Eurus?” She asked gently. He tensed at the name.  _ How could she possibly… _

 

“You were talking while you were passed out. Mumbling about a coffin and Euros and John...and me.”

 

_ Oh _ . He nodded. “I was going to, actually. It’s the reason I came over. To explain, not to-” he gestured vaguely at himself and the floor, “-do all this.”

 

She shrugged. “You  _ did  _ just suddenly stop taking huge doses of illicit drugs. And you can’t tell me that was a plan, because it sure as hell wasn’t.”

 

“Ah, well, it was. Mary, she...she left me a message. Told me to do something, something bad. So that I could save John.”

 

“Save him from who?” Sherlock sighed.

 

“From himself. From me. I  _ was _ taking drugs, but not as much as it looked like I was. I don’t think, at least. I’m still not sure how much I trust Wiggins.” Molly cocked her head at him.

 

“Is that why you were mumbling about saving people in your sleep?”

 

“No,” Sherlock said. He tried to think of what to say, in a way that she would believe him.

 

“I- I saved your life, Molly.” He cringed at the words. “No, no, I didn’t. I take that back. I  _ thought _ I was, that’s all. I thought, Eurus, she…” He scrunched his face up in frustration, the constant headache from the withdrawal pounding in his ears.

 

“Who is Eurus?” Molly asked quietly, staring at him. A tear escaped her eye, rolling down her cheek, and she swiped at it angrily. Sherlock felt the strangest feeling in his stomach as he watched her cry. 

 

“She’s my...my sister.” The words still tasted foreign in his mouth as he said them. Another tear trailed down Molly’s cheek, but she ignored it as she gaped at him in shock. “A  _ sister _ ? How did I never know you had a sister?”

 

“Because I didn’t know either.” Sherlock’s head nodded towards a dining chair in the corner of his vision. “Maybe we should sit down somewhere besides the floor.” Molly crossed her arms.

 

“No. Whatever you have to say, I can take it standing.” Sherlock sighed, bracing himself against the counter and pulling himself to his feet. He slid his hand aimlessly across the smooth countertop as Molly stood up. He belatedly thought he should have helped her, but she was already standing next to him by the time he turned around.

 

“Your phone,” he started, staring at his hand. “It was here, on the counter. You were making tea.” He smiled sadly. “You didn’t pick up the phone the first time. You barely even looked at it.”

 

“How can you know this?” Molly’s voice trembled. “You don’t have to be a genius, Sherlock; obviously I didn’t pick up the first time. But how the  _ hell _ did you know what I was doing?” Sherlock was startled at the amount of swears coming out of Molly’s mouth; granted, they weren’t the harshest ones, but Molly had never sworn in front of him before. But then again, he knew there were plenty of things he didn't know about the woman who was his friend. Her eyes narrowed in suspicion. “You didn’t bug my flat, did you?”

 

Sherlock shook his head immediately, sending his hair bouncing. “No, no, of course not. I would never do that.” He took a breath. “But Eurus did.” He stepped closer, picking up the lemon that still lay on the counter. “I don’t think I have to tell you not to share this information with anybody.”

 

Molly did not hesitate. “No, of course not.”

 

“My sister has been kept in the most secret prison I know of since childhood. She was taken away after she drowned my dog and burned down our house- actually, it turns out I never had a dog, but that’s another story.” He coughed. “Anyways, she’s more clever than me, even smarter than my brother. Mycroft, I mean. There’s no fourth one. That I know of, at least.” His heart skipped as Molly gave him a small smile and met his eyes, if only for a moment. He felt a rush of relief as he realized she believed him. 

 

“She took over her prison, took me and John and Mycroft hostage in her own cell. She controlled everyone, everything. She was probably one of the main forces behind everything Moriarty did to me before, actually.” He cleared his throat again as Molly’s eyes narrowed at the name, irritated at getting off track for the umpteenth time. “She sent us through these ‘challenges’; forcing John or my brother to kill an innocent man in order to save his wife, only to have Eurus shoot her even after he was dead. A puzzle to solve a murder, ending with all three suspects- the both the innocent and guilty parties- dying. Because of us. Because of the ‘emotional context’ we were giving her.” He looked Molly in the eye again. “And then there was you.”

 

“A coffin,” Sherlock continued. “A coffin that was meant for a young woman of around your height and build. A coffin with  _ three words _ written on the lid.” He stared meaningfully at Molly, whose mouth dropped open in realization.

 

“No. She didn’t.” She grabbed the edge of the counter for support. “She wouldn’t do that. Nobody-nobody would…” She trailed off, staring at the counter. “She was going to kill me too, wasn’t she?”

 

Sherlock nodded grimly. “Three minutes,” he said softly. “I was told that if you didn’t say those words...she would set off the bombs in your flat.” Molly swung her head up sharply at his words, but he placed a hand on her shoulder.

 

“There were never any bombs, Molly. You were safe the entire time. But Eurus knew that I would see the pattern, would have no reason to think she wasn’t about to blow you up.” Molly took a shaky breath.

 

“So that’s all that was, then. The reason he didn’t call me about Rosie. The reason you said that to me. You were kidnapped.”

 

“Yes,” Sherlock replied simply. Molly raised a hand to her face and shook her head.

 

“I...I’m so sorry, Sherlock. I had no idea. If I had known…”

 

“That wasn’t the point. Eurus knew what she was doing, knew how to break me, and you. What I said…” He paused, heart pounding, then rushed on before he could stop himself. “Love is a dangerous game for me. It is something that Eurus taught me at a young age to be something that only causes pain and loss and suffering. She killed my best friend, almost did it again before I figured out what was going on and stopped her. I didn’t ever think of love again after Redbeard, not until...until you, and John, and everyone I’ve met here in London. Even Lestrade, Mrs. Hudson...Mary. I  _ do _ think I love you, Molly. Just...I love you like I love John, like I have grown to love Mary. As a friend, a partner...family. I’ve never had good experiences with family, but I think that that’s what I consider everyone around me to be.”

 

Molly reached over and clasped his hand in hers.

 

“I know,” she said. “That’s what I’ve been trying to tell myself.” There was a pause as Molly ran her thumb over the back of Sherlock’s hand, staring at it.

 

“Molly,” Sherlock said in a strange tone. “Have I just friendzoned you?”

 

Molly laughed, a sound that sounded foreign to Sherlock. He started to chuckle with her, the tension evaporating instantly.

 

“Maybe,” she said. “But I think a kidnapping is a good enough excuse. Besides, it was silly of me. I thought I was the only one in the group that fell in love with a high-functioning sociopath, when apparently that’s a common theme around here.”

 

She smiled at him, genuinely smiled, and Sherlock pulled her in for a quick hug. She squeaked in surprise, face turning red as he released her and sent them both into laughter again. Suddenly Molly shushed Sherlock, turning away. He picked up the sound of a baby crying from down the hall, and started down towards the room.

 

He picked Rosie up out of her crib, awkwardly holding her as he tried to calm her down. Molly’s soft hands guided his own until he was holding her correctly, and the baby’s cries quieted. He was glad to note that his hands had steadied. 

 

“I should get her home,” he said regretfully. Molly nodded sadly.

 

“Yep. She needs to be there, though. I can’t take care of her as well as her father. Just...if you go on a case, call me, okay? I promise I’ll take her whenever I can.”

 

Sherlock nodded gratefully. He knew that would happen, probably soon after Rosie came to Baker Street. But it was where she belonged.

 

“I’ll come back for her things later,” he said. “I don’t want big brother after me for being late.” Molly nodded.

 

“See you later, then?”

 

“Yeah.”

 

Sherlock walked out the door just as a sleek black car pulled up at the top of the stairs. He rolled his eyes and hoisted Rosie higher in his arms as he got into the car, looking back at the building as Molly closed her door, a strangely relieved smile on her face.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm wondering if that was too long or not. I wrote it in almost three hours last night, from around 8pm to 11pm (on a school night when I had midterms the next day...that was not one of my best ideas), and it's just over 3500 words so idk. Let me know what you thought! I didn't really edit it and i skipped around a bit, but on the read-through earlier it looked alright so I apologize for mistakes!
> 
> Make sure to check out my other Sherlock stories (more coming soon I promise) and I'll see you guys later :)
> 
> ~Divergent. Lunar. Shadowhunter


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